


Osanwi fëo vanwa

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, First Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:01:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ósanwi fëo vanwa: Account of the madness of Maedhros son of Féanor in the Halls of Mandos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Osanwi fëo vanwa

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

**Author's Note:** Maedhros’ POV, first person. I am sorry for the run-on sentences, over-use of commas and ellipses and twisted leaps of logic. However, Maedhros is completely insane (I am not kidding here) and refuses to even TRY to make his thoughts comprehensible. Of course, maybe that’s a good thing. All I know is that this scared me even while writing it, and I’m currently wondering about my own mental state.

This was inspired by a number of Le Chat Noir’s fics, most notably Ivresse, Jeux de Miroirs and Au Nom du Père.

*******

Mad.

I hear them, whispering, horrified, thoughts flying to thoughts without regard to the fëa, my fëa, that huddles away from them. I want to talk to them, scream at them, make them understand… but no sound leaves my lips, for there are no sounds here, nor do we, naked, unhoused, possess the means to make them, and I cannot form my thoughts so they can understand them. Not anymore, although I try, yet my thoughts, half-coherent, leave my mind too soon or too late, spun, twisted beyond comprehension, garbled, and they do not understand.

I hear the murmurs that burrow their way into my mind, through the shield of pain I have built up around myself – _look there, ‘tis Maedhros, gone mad after all he did…_ they do not understand. Is not madness the last refuge of a tormented soul? Is it not better to view the memories, the pain, through the safe veil of insanity, so that one must not think, must not feel, only drift on the flows of thought? I want to hide, hide in the darkest corners of my mind, hide away from it all, from the memories, the memories of Alqualondë, of Doriath, of Sirion, the feel of blood, blood on my hands, on my face, mingling with tears… memories of pain, of fire, of Thangorodrim, aye Thangorodrim, it hurts so, it hurts unbearably so, I never imagined anything could hurt so…

Fingon! I see you, standing there, with them that whisper, them that stare. Why did you not slay me when you could, when I asked you to? I thought you loved me, I thought we were close as brothers, why could you not release me from the horrible pain? Now it is not Fingon looking at me, but Maglor, Maglor with his accusing eyes, Maglor the minstrel, Maglor the singer, Maglor whose hands are stained with blood, holding a sword at Doriath, weeping in Sirion… if only I had died, I would not have forced him to kill again, at Sirion, blood running into the waters at Sirion, if only I had died, if only…

I try to hide, yet the memories follow me, they will not leave me alone, they are everywhere I try to flee, in my mind, in my thoughts, hounding me through my tears, tears I cannot shed for one needs a hröa to cry, and I have none. And the people, they stare, accusingly, with their eyes that are not, their whispers joining the memories, attacking me, tormenting me, a wave of despair and anger crashing into me… why must you hurt me so, I try to scream, yet I have no voice, we do not have voices here.

No voices, no eyes, no lips to speak with and no ears to hear with, only thoughts, naked thoughts amongst our naked fëa, and they shy away from mine, away from the twisted, incomprehensible thoughts that spill into the darkness. Mad, they call me, mad and fey, and they are right, yet who would wish to be sane with these thoughts whirling around in their head? The thoughts run through me, yet I do not have to handle them, do not have to steer them, they run free to do as they will, unhinged, the people say, my mind is unhinged, and they are right yet I cannot tell them so.

Who is staring at me now? Is it Fingon, my friend, my cousin, my brother in heart, who came to save me from Thangorodrim? Who would have killed me, was going to kill me, when that Eagle came to hinder him? That Eagle, cursed Eagle, Fingon thought it was a symbol that the Valar had not yet forgotten us, had pity for us, yet I knew that what it did was not save me but curse me, curse me to yet more pain, yet more sorrow. Nay, it is not Fingon, it is Curufin, Curufin our father’s son, he who always smiled, always laughed, laughed in Valinor beneath the two Trees, the two dead Trees, laughed in the ruins of Alqualondë, laughed among the dead Orcs, laughed in Doriath, a laugh frozen on his dead face… I never understood why, but he is not laughing now, he has no mouth to laugh with… or is it not Curufin who watches me? I do not know, do not know who watches me, or perhaps no one does, no one at all, only the demons out of my thoughts.

Father! The cry almost escapes my whirling mind, as I see the fëa more closely through the fires of madness, nay, not fires, fire hurts, fire burns like nothing you can imagine, like a Silmaril nestled into my palm, agony untold pouring through me… it is Father that watches me, watches my mind writhe in its torment, watches my fëa, naked, open to all who would wish to look at it, yet they do not look, they shy away, whispering yet not because there are no sounds here, no sounds, no sights, only the memories.

Still he watches, his eyes, nay not his eyes, he does not have eyes, burning into me. Father, why are you staring at me so? You never looked at me before, never stared at me so, only gave me brief glances, the boy who tried so hard to make you proud of him, yet you never were, I was never good enough, no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried… you never gave me more than a quick look, as if I were not worthy of your attention, the child that watched you in the forge, followed you through our home, that you taught what you knew, but it was not enough, never enough… and then it was too late, and you were gone, consumed by the fire (no, not fire, fire hurts, hurts, worse than anything you can imagine, surely not fire) of your own spirit – or so they said. I saw you, in flames, did it hurt you as it did me? Nay, surely not, you were too proud, too proud to feel hurt, to feel pain, too proud to see what you had done, although I did not realize until later.

And you were gone, only your memory remaining, hounding us, pushing us on, the memory of an Oath sworn for your love, the love you never gave us, the love you withheld from us, gave to your jewels, the jewels, those accursed jewels, shining brighter than all Varda’s stars. Even after Sirion, even after everything, they still shone brilliantly, white… I had thought they would be red, red with the blood of innocents, blood we spilled, for you, for your love… yet blood does not stain your Silmarils, it does not stick to them like it does to us, to me, to my hands, my face, my skin, and no matter how hard you scrub it will not come off.

They burn, do you know, your Silmarils, they burn, they hurt so badly, almost worse than Thangorodrim yet not, nothing can hurt worse than Thangorodrim. They burn, for they are sacred, or so people say, too sacred for us to touch, yet how can anything that so much blood has been spilled for be sacred? They burned me, they rejected me, the things my father had loved above all. _You_ rejected me through them, after all I had done to please you, to get back the jewels you loved, although I hated them… but it was not enough, it was never enough, you never loved me as I loved you and you never shall.

Are you crying? But you cannot be, there are no tears here, no tears anymore, no tears to let out your pain so you have to keep it all inside, swirling around and around until you want to scream and scream and scream until the end of Arda, except you _cannot_.

You _are_ crying, somehow, you are crying tears-that-are-not-tears, please do not cry Father, I love you although you do not love me, I never forgave you because I never blamed you, except maybe I did, I do not remember, I do not _want_ to remember, but do not cry, please, do not cry…

Do not leave! Please, Father, leave me not here, I wanted to be alone, I wanted them to leave me alone, yet they will not, will not leave me be, _please_ Father, make them go away, make them go away like you did the nightmares I had as a child, I know you were annoyed then, that I was wasting your time, that I am wasting your time now, but they will not go away, they will not leave me alone and it hurts so, Father… please? I am sorry I disappointed you, I am sorry I let you down, always let you down, I was never as good as you expected, as good as you wanted me to be, I will try harder, just _do not leave me alone!_

You are gone now, or maybe not, or maybe you were never even here, I do not know anymore, I do not know anything anymore. I try to hide again, hide from the memories, the pain, hide from the thoughts that flow through me, that I do not try to steer, that I do not wish to steer for then they would only remain longer and I want them to leave, I want them to leave, I want them all to leave until there is only me left, alone in the darkness and I do not have to think anymore, never have to think again.

*******

Fëa – soul, mind, heart, etc.

Hröa – body


End file.
